IN WONDERLAND

In the pottery, by the wheel sits the potter, molding pots from the clay which is before him. It is a work of pleasure with him, for, after admiring the pots for a while, he puts them back in the clay pile to be reshaped into new pots. How marvelously the potter works the unending variety of the pots. The pots are alive; they never are at a standstill—always on the go; they are not to-day what they were yesterday, and to-morrow they will be again different.

Life, the potter, is an artist. He molds his pots in various shapes and endless designs. I understand that he is always at work. We have no certain knowledge when he began, neither do we know when he will end. The designs are infinite, from the common thistle to the most delicate flower; from the tiniest blade of grass to the most majestic oak. The marvelous ways of life, the unending change in all his creation, challenges attention. From the smallest to the largest works of art in this workshop of life a constant change goes on. And how deftly, too, the constant waste is repaired—the steady drain compensated. There is not much difficulty in the absorption and repair of waste by units which move not from place to place. The rain and sunshine comes to the plant to assist in its repair; if those be denied, it withers and decays. Some forms of vegetation apparently assist themselves; many plants lift their heads to the sun, others set wiles to ensnare; some decoy by fragrant perfumes, others by pleasant juices. Their needs are satisfied by the mere lifting of their heads and the absorption of a few insects.

In the animal world the organic units move from place to place and the change is more apparent. Each comes into being small and weak, but complete. It gathers and absorbs to itself parts of other organisms till it reaches perfectness, then dies. It dissolves itself to be absorbed by others. In the animal, from the tiniest amœba to the most complicated form, the repair requires effort and exertion. The more complex an organism the greater the effort required of it. A worm is satisfied to eat of the earth on the spot where it is. Birds have to travel miles in order to get away from climatic conditions. The more complex the organism the more it needs to assert itself. When we come to man, the most complicated animal of them all, his conscious effort is required in repairing his waste.

Scientists tell us that by waste and absorption we have new bodies every seven years; that is, in seven years the old body is wasted away, but by constant repair—the building up of new tissues—new bodies are created.

Man needs air, sunshine, water, food, and shelter. Air and sunshine are around about him; for food, water, clothing, and shelter his exertion against nature is ceaseless. He must be active, he must be creative, to satisfy his constant needs. His capital to start on is a head, hands, and feet. The head plans, the feet take him to the place of action, and with the hands he makes tools and executes and carries out the ideas formulated by the brain. He prepares his food, shelter, clothing, and means of locomotion. Any defect in either of these natural tools renders him unable to satisfy his wants. Unless charitably inclined comrades of his species provide for the idiot, the cripple, the paralytic, and repair the waste for them, they must perish.

Life, therefore, means work, and the joy of work is the joy of life. We see this in animal and human development. To be active, to create, to meet the constant need—these are titles to survival. Nevertheless, there is a tendency on the part of the more active to be kindly to the laggard. Even the drone is tolerated long before he is driven from the hive. Life consists in repairing, in compensating, for the inevitable waste. Death is the result of neglect.

And ruminating thus I fell asleep, and dreamed a dream of Wonderland. There is no law, as yet, against dreaming. The nihilist may dream in Russia without awaking in Siberia. The most pious Methodist may dream of dancing without being in danger of the council, and he may escape brimstone and other satanic chemicals if his dream shift from the waxed floor to the poker table. William Morris dreamed a dream of anarchic communism and labeled it “News from Nowhere.” Perhaps he derived more real pleasure from the dream than he could have realized from a “coming true” of the filmy fabric of his fatigue.

Professor Triggs dreamed that he was in a city of comrades. He dreamed a little too loud and woke Charlie Hutchinson, who in turn woke the professor.

In my dream of Wonderland, I seemed to be surrounded by the kindliest and most charitable beings that I had ever known. I saw able-bodied and alert-witted men and women who accepted charity as though it were their due. They did nothing for themselves nor for others, yet their every want and need was gratified by the dear people of Wonderland.

The dolers of this charity kept for themselves barely enough to repair their own waste. Such beautiful self-immolation I had never seen. I saw the toilers working on the farms, cultivating grain that was being fed to fatten the cattle designed for the food of the beneficiaries of their charitable efforts. Others were building slaughter-houses, and others again were converting the live cattle into porterhouse and tenderloin, and still others were preparing these dainty cuts for the table of the recipients of this charity. And the latter required savory and piquant sauces of mushrooms and capers and the like, in order that their appetites might be properly aroused and stimulated. The workers, less dainty, needed none of these artful aids to appetite; for the bones and gristle and entrails they reserved for themselves.

In my vision of Wonderland I saw others endangering their lives in quarries, cutting out marble to ornament the beautiful mansions which the charitable were building for their wards. Many were content to be cooped up in stuffy factories manufacturing beautiful rugs and carpets to be enjoyed by the helpless ones for whom they were serving. I saw earnest men designing artistic furniture and inlaid musical instruments to adorn the elegant mansions of the beneficiaries of all this charitable endeavor. And the wives of the toilers were in the kitchen and their sisters in the laundry and their children in the shops, all striving to relieve the slightest need of the helpless class.

The workers themselves stole away to rest in cramped and poorly furnished garrets, damp basements, or under sidewalks.

The wards of charity were never beaten or ill-used. No harsh words were spoken to them, nor were they reproached for their dependent condition. In this dreamland the charity wards were not set to work on the street nor sent to soup-houses for food, as is the case in the wideawake world. Instead, they were furnished fine carriages, drawn by spirited horses, while the donors of charity sat in livery. These accommodating dream-people were very considerate, responding to each nod and beck of their wards.

Believe me, Wonderland is the ideal place. Nowhere have I seen self-sacrifice and brotherly love exemplified in such perfection.

A loud voice woke me from my beautiful dream. It was the landlord, demanding the rent.